


Written Prayers

by strawberriez8800



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alfie Writes Tommy, Between Series 4 and Series 5, Developing Relationship, M/M, Post-Season/Series 04, Tommy Visits Alfie, Tommy/Alfie/Tenderness, Vignettes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:40:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23753218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberriez8800/pseuds/strawberriez8800
Summary: I miss my dog, Alfie had written in the telegram, and next to it was a crude drawing of a sad face; it seemed Alfie had lost his sense as well as his life, except he had managed to save only the latter.In which Alfie writes Tommy after his 'death', again and again, until it is no longer possible for Tommy to ignore him.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Comments: 16
Kudos: 148





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set after Series 4, in a slight canon-divergence where Tommy decides to do something about Alfie's letter(s).
> 
> Written in snippets/vignettes of moments and thoughts.

It was two weeks after Tommy had put a bullet in Alfie when he received a telegram from a dead man who, as it happened, wasn’t so dead in the end.

There was only one line—hand-written and barely legible at that.

_Does Cyril miss me?_

For all of Tommy’s relief—faint, though undeniable—in knowing Alfie was alive after all, he didn’t write a response; he knew all too well no good had ever— _would_ ever—come out of resurrecting a memory, much less one of someone so capricious as Alfie Solomons.

Nonetheless, Tommy kept the letter, not quite knowing why he did yet not caring all the same.

No one had to know—himself included.

Tommy never looked at it again.

* * *

The second telegram arrived a few days later.

 _I miss my dog,_ Alfie had written, and next to it was a crude drawing of a sad face.

It seemed Alfie had lost his sense as well as his life, except he had managed to save only the latter.

Tommy skirted his fingers over the ink, and the words smudged beneath his touch ever so little. In his drawer he put the letter away, though this time, he was unable to hide the slight smile that tugged at his mouth.

The third letter came rather soon after.

_Say hello, why don’t you?_

Now, that—that was new.

The scrawl was also a tad more readable this time around, which suggested to Tommy it had been penned by Alfie in a relatively lucid state of mind; the notion made it all the more difficult to ignore, yet Tommy wouldn’t have it—wouldn’t bloody think about it. There was no practical reason for such a thing; he couldn’t even recall the last time he had done anything beyond the sake of pragmatism.

There was no reason this would be any different.

Regardless, Tommy added the telegram to his growing collection; it was a lucky thing he had the entire fucking library of Arrow House at his disposal to keep Alfie’s ramblings.

* * *

A week later, Tommy received a fourth telegram from Alfie about some bug he had seen that reminded him of Tommy and, honestly, it was reaching the point of fucking ridiculous.

“Is everything all right, Mr Shelby?” Frances asked after she handed him the envelope. “Are you being...harassed?”

For a moment, Tommy’s mind blanked at her question before it dawned on him. “Not at all, Frances,” he said, almost relenting to a smirk at the absurdity. “Simply some correspondence from an overzealous friend.”

“Quite so, indeed.”

* * *

It was exactly three weeks and two days after Tommy had shot Alfie in the face when he visited him at the hospital, for no other reason than to put a stop to this nonsense.

Alfie was reading a book when Tommy arrived. The entire left side of his face was bandaged, though certainly not as heavily as it would have been a week ago.

Tommy set the folded telegrams on Alfie’s lap. “Spare me.” He sat in the visitor’s chair, granting himself a smoke.

“Good to see you too, mate,” Alfie said, grinning. “Tell me, why the hell would I _spare_ you, Tommy, when they’ve just proven to me to work like fucking magic?”

“What are you on about, Alfie?”

“Telegrams. They got you here, didn’t they?”

Try as he might, Tommy couldn’t argue with this particular point, thus he simply took a drag of his cigarette and changed the subject. “So, it appears you’ve cheated death, Mr Solomons.”

“Nah, mate, don’t give _me_ all the credit. You’re the one who botched your handiwork, yeah.” Alfie closed his book and set it aside. “Seriously, though, how the fuck did you get where you are with such fucking terrible aim?”

Tommy shrugged, not bothering to grace _that_ with an answer.

That afternoon, Tommy didn’t stay for long. During what time he had spent beside Alfie’s hospital bed, however, they had talked—it had been more so along the lines of Alfie asking questions about anything and everything—Cyril, in particular—and Tommy entertaining him despite himself, filling Alfie in on the going-ons of life. All awfully mundane topics of conversation, really, yet one oughtn’t to deny the simple fact that talking to Alfie could never be quite boring.

Whether that was a good thing or not…

Well, it certainly wasn’t _practical._

* * *

Of course, despite Tommy’s demand, Alfie’s telegrams didn’t cease; in fact, they might even have increased in frequency. The insufferable bastard.

Despite it all, Tommy awoke one morning and found himself _looking forward_ to a new letter—however _that_ had happened, he had no fucking clue.

The next one he received was rather cryptic.

 _I didn’t see this coming._ _Ha ha._

It appeared Alfie had officially gone insane.

Nothing new here.

* * *

“You’re not as funny as you think,” Tommy said to Alfie the next time he visited the hospital.

It wasn’t until Alfie turned around to look at him that Tommy saw his face—free of any bandaging now—and realised he had lost his left eye from the bullet. “Good try, though,” Tommy added, allowing a small smirk.

“Not only did you fail to kill me, Tommy,” Alfie said slowly, “you also managed to blind my left eye without even hitting it with the fucking bullet. Well done, mate, well done.”

“I’m not sorry for having failed to kill you, Alfie,” Tommy said, and for a moment he wanted to take it back, because this—this was a bit much, wasn’t it? “But I do apologise for that—” he gestured to Alfie’s blind eye “—that was unintentional.”

“Nah. Who needs two when one does just fine? You know, Tom, I was sick of all my advantages, yeah. Might do the world a bit of good, right, to level the playing field a bit.”

“Glass half-full, eh?”

“Not so much a glass half-full as the plain fucking truth, mate,” Alfie said with a grin.

And Tommy couldn’t find it in himself to _not_ return the smile, so he did—a little. Just a little.

* * *

Tommy didn’t know when it’d started, though by the time he realised it _had_ , he was already knee-deep in it all; for one inexplicable reason or another, he found himself visiting more frequently and staying a little later each time.

A fucking slippery slope it was, yet—he didn’t care, didn’t _want_ to and there was something not a little unsettling about that.

Tommy startled awake when a pillow struck his face.

“What the fuck, Alfie?”

“It’s taking all of my benevolence and more, yeah, to not find offense in your falling asleep in my presence, Tommy. You find me that bloody dull, do you?” Alfie said, blatant amusement in his voice. “Anyway, the word was you’d ascended above something so mortal as the need for slumber, mate.”

“If only,” Tommy muttered, lighting a cigarette.

“In any case,” Alfie continued, “you may be pleased to hear, Thomas, today marks the last of your obligation to visit.”

It was the furthest thing from an obligation; of this Tommy was certain—Alfie, too, he suspected. They were both many things, yet oblivious they were not. The _extent_ of such awareness, however, who could say for sure?

“When are you leaving?” Tommy asked.

“Tomorrow.”

That was rather soon. “Right.”

“Care for a housewarming party?” Alfie said abruptly. “Granted, there would be an impressive number of attendees. Precisely two, if you were wondering—my lovely housekeeper and a Thomas Shelby, if he chooses to come, so do not at all feel compelled.”

* * *

The Margate breeze was ever warm even in the sun’s descent.

Tommy and Alfie sat on his balcony, sharing a bottle of rum between them. On occasion, Alfie would use half of his binoculars—honestly, perhaps a fucking monocular would be more appropriate here—to watch any passing ships.

“There’s another one,” Alfie said, holding the device to his eye. “No two are the same, yeah.”

For all of Alfie’s enthusiasm for spotting ships, Tommy opted to watch him, instead, sipping his rum and smoking a cigarette. The orange-purple light of dusk caressed his face in all the right ways, and Tommy wondered, for a moment, how Alfie’s mending scar would feel beneath his fingers.

It would feel rough and leathery, most likely, and if he shifted his touch a little further south, it would be met by smooth skin, then, the coarseness of his beard. He could trace it so easily, with his eyes, his fingers, all the way to Alfie’s mouth—

Tommy diverted the line of thought before it could go off the fucking rails.

Upon noticing Tommy’s scrutiny, Alfie scowled at him. “What? Not everyone has healing abilities that transcend fucking genetics, mate.”

“It’s not that,” Tommy said, and he didn’t know why he was clarifying, really, thus he stopped.

“You’re bloody strange sometimes, you know that, Tom?”

Tommy took a drag of his cigarette. “I’ve had far worse said about me.”

Alfie let out a curt laugh. “Haven’t we all?”

When Tommy glanced at him again, Alfie’s grin had softened into a smile. For a moment, they simply stared at each other and God knows what the _fuck_ was happening right now.

Tommy cleared his throat and looked away, though he couldn’t quite resist another glimpse.

Whatever it had been...

It was nice.

 _More_ than nice, perhaps, even if it did feel fucking absurd to admit to himself.

* * *

In the weeks that followed, Tommy filled his days with work from dawn till dusk.

Without the excuse of the hospital, it did seem ever silly to keep stopping by Margate for no discernible reason, except for this very one—his unrelenting yearning to hear Alfie’s voice again, see that stupid grin, sneer at his obnoxious jokes, whatever the fuck.

What had all but cemented Tommy’s reality was the moment he imagined Alfie’s company rather than Lizzie in his own bed, touching him, kissing him, fucking him.

“I can’t,” Tommy said as he pulled away from her. “It’s not a good time, Lizzie.”

Her expression fell for an instant, before it was replaced by one of coldness. “When is it ever, these days?”

Perhaps everyone would be better off if he had simply shut his eyes and pretended— _if only_ —

Fuck.

* * *

Alfie continued to send one-lined telegrams to Tommy’s address, as though it had become all but a tradition. Although none of them were of particular importance, some were more nonsensical than others.

 _As_ tradition, Tommy didn’t respond, though at times he did wonder if he should.

It wouldn’t hurt, would it?

Yet...what would he say?

He wasn’t one for words, especially when it came to writing them.

* * *

One day, Tommy received a telegram that stopped him short.

_Get out of my fucking head, Tommy._

He toyed with the letter in his hand, wondered what the _fuck_ it meant, if Alfie had been high on opium or cocaine or chloroform when he had sent this utter fucking conundrum of a message.

Tommy had half a mind to drop everything and drive all the way to Margate right now if it meant he could get some bloody clarification.

He thought of a better idea.

Let the fucker get a taste of his own medicine.

 _Make me,_ he wrote as his first ever response to Alfie’s countless writings.

Fuck it.

He set down the pen and, instead, put on his coat and got into his car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The telegram about a bug reminding Alfie of Tommy is a hat tip to @sirnando's 'put it into words' fic, chapter two. :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gave in and ended up writing the second (and last) chapter for this! I simply couldn't just leave it where I did...

Tommy arrived at Margate after dusk on the day he received what might very well be a fucking love letter from none other than Alfie Solomons.

Perhaps in another life, he would be embarrassed about showing up unannounced—rather promptly at that; yet he couldn’t bring himself to care all too much at this moment, and what little was left of his apprehension faded to dust when he joined Alfie at his balcony.

Alfie didn’t even spare him a glance as he said, “You know, Tommy, I told you to get out of my head, yeah, not come to my fucking house. What part of that do you not fathom, mate?”

The disapproval in his voice was half-hearted at best, thus Tommy ignored it and took the seat beside him.

If Alfie didn’t want him around, there would be no doubt about it.

As it was…

Well, Tommy would even go so far as to assume Alfie wanted him there—what the fuck would be the point of his enigmatic telegram, otherwise?—so he said nothing and helped himself to a cigarette.

As they basked in nightfall, neither of them drank; somehow, an implicit agreement had slipped into place that they would both be lucid on this night—for what reason, Tommy didn’t know, didn’t care to find out.

That evening, they didn’t talk, simply lingered in the silence of each other’s company as they listened to the waves.

* * *

“If you don’t want to fall asleep at the wheel and crash into a poor, old innocent tree, it might be a wise idea to start driving, mate,” Alfie said.

It was a few hours after dinner—well past the appropriate length of stay for any house guest, really, yet the last thing Tommy wanted was to leave.

“You’re right, Alfie, I’d hate to fall asleep at the wheel. Don’t want to start driving, either.”

Alfie regarded him with raised eyebrows. “Are you saying what the fuck I think you’re saying?”

Tommy simply glanced at him and lit another cigarette. “Do be more specific, Alfie.” He was being needlessly obtuse, he knew, though if it meant he could continue watch Alfie’s utter bewilderment and disbelief at what Tommy was suggesting…

“You want to stay the night then, you silly boy?”

Tommy shrugged, looking away and trying his best to hide the flush that crept up his neck.

* * *

Alfie’s guest room was—nice. Neatly furnished with all the necessities it was, which surprised Tommy, somewhat; Alfie didn’t seem to be one for hosting guests—he wouldn’t be, would he, what with being technically dead and all—thus Tommy would like to think Alfie had set up this room just for him, even if Alfie didn’t admit it aloud.

That was all right; the knowledge itself was pleasing enough.

* * *

It was past midnight and Tommy was wide awake, which was nothing new.

What was new was lying in this strange, foreign bed that almost smelled like Alfie, which was absolutely fucking ridiculous, because when the fuck had Tommy been close enough to Alfie to know what the hell he smelled like?

Yet…

Tommy couldn’t string this feeling into a coherent thought in his mind.

* * *

For all of the mess Tommy’s head was in, when he let himself into Alfie’s bedroom that night, he did so with nothing but a deep-seated certainty that surprised himself.

Alfie was awake when he arrived, almost as if he had been waiting, though he couldn’t have…

Could he?

There was a gun on Alfie’s nightstand, no doubt for anyone bloody stupid enough to show up at his bedroom without invitation—precisely what Tommy was doing right this moment, yet when Alfie turned to him with a languid smile, it seemed he had made an exception for Tommy.

“Are you lost, Tom?” Alfie asked quietly.

“No,” was all he said.

Alfie seemed satisfied enough with that answer.

That night, they lay beside each other in the dark, neither of them saying anything as they pretended the other wasn’t there yet were cripplingly aware all at once.

Their hands were almost touching, and it was all quite laughable and nonsensical, really, for they were both grown men acting like adolescent boys stumbling across their first romance.

Romance—was this what it was?

God knows.

Tommy relented to his urge to take Alfie’s hand. Gently, he brought it to his lips and Alfie’s stuttered breath beside him sounded ever stark in the quietness. Tommy kissed the back of his hand, softly, traced Alfie’s rough fingers with his own.

Perhaps the most unreal thing was the fact that Alfie was letting all of this happen, thus Tommy continued; he kissed a path down Alfie’s hand, almost lazily, feeling the warm skin and coarse hairs against his mouth until his lips rested above the inside of Alfie’s wrist.

The heat on Tommy’s cheeks was all too fucking exposed, though it was easy to ignore in the dark when not even himself could see what the hell he was doing, and certainly not Alfie.

Just like that, Alfie withdrew his hand and Tommy wondered if he had fucked it all up before it had even started. Then, what had only been in Tommy’s reveries surfaced to life when Alfie leaned over to kiss him, and he did so with a tenderness that Tommy hadn’t known he was capable of.

They kissed, slowly and gently, lips teasing against one another as their breaths passed from each other’s lungs as though they stroked a flame. Tommy let himself sink into Alfie’s touch, and if he didn’t think too much, it almost felt like they had all the time in the world to revel in each other’s company; it occurred to Tommy then—perhaps they did have time, after all.

It was a knowledge that thrilled him beyond belief and drove him to bury his fingers in Alfie’s hair, bringing him closer than what ought to be possible. Alfie’s weight was firm above him as they rocked their hips together, their erect cocks terrifically palpable through the cloth of their pants, and this—this want was so unadulterated it threatened to undo them both, yet they held back, all the same, willing themselves to savour every kiss, every breath, every touch with a patience that was nothing if not fucking extraordinary.

“When was the last time you were with a man?” Alfie asked amidst the darkness between kisses along Tommy’s collarbone.

It had been too long, if Tommy was honest, but did it matter? Being with Alfie seemed to transcend something so feeble as gender and sex, in some strange way. “I don’t remember,” Tommy mumbled against Alfie’s hair.

“But you have? Been with one, yeah?”

Memories of the war surfaced for a moment—the quieter ones, when one hadn’t quite the luxury of being fastidious in their choice of solace. “Yes. I want to,” Tommy said, “be with you, that is.”

This provoked a little laugh from Alfie. “Well, from the fact that you’re literally in my bed, right, I’d think that goes without saying, Tommy.”

Well, if he put it this way...

* * *

There was nothing but the silence of twilight around Tommy and the slow, even inhales and exhales of Alfie sleeping beside him.

Tommy’s consciousness ebbed and flowed to the sound of Alfie’s soft snoring, much like the waves he could almost hear beyond the window, until his mind yielded to the seduction of sweet, sweet sleep.

* * *

When Tommy woke up the next morning, he didn’t open his eyes for a while, for fear of letting the whimsicality of it all shatter in the face of reality.

There was the sound of someone breathing beside him, and this feeling of warmth, like—home.

Tommy let his eyes flutter open, squinting against the sunlight that peeked through the curtains.

Alfie was beside him, dozing away.

It had been real, after all.

There was something to be said about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's something very endearing about Tommy and Alfie being gentle. I think I like it :)


End file.
